Chapter 36

Thursday morning started at 5:30 AM on the agency rooftop, long before the sun appeared on the horizon. Mirko's morning drill ran for forty minutes longer than Wednesday. She didn't explain the extension; she kept going until she found what she was looking for, and I kept pace because stopping early was its own kind of admission.

She was faster today; she had fully adjusted to how I moved over the past few days. Cutting angles I had previously relied on, which forced me to adapt on the spot. I took three hits; the first landed on me, but I tanked it and continued fighting since I braced myself. 

The second hit me because I slipped while trying to retreat; the impact landed across my shoulder. 

The third one caught me completely off guard; she read my movement and struck my leg before I could reset my stance.

After being hit, I shifted my weight back while trying to stay up and keep my legs steady; if I ended up sprawled on the ground like on my first day, that would be humiliating.

Mirko stopped after the third hit.

"You're better than Monday," she said, while hopping back into a light stance. "You're not flinching as much when I strike you, but you're still losing time by overthinking."

" I'm trying to avoid your next attack, but I'm being a step too slow in getting my guard back up," I said while slowly massaging my sore shoulder.

"You're trying to guess where I'm going to strike instead of reacting; that's actually a good idea," she complimented me before adding. "Unfortunately, if I change my angle mid-strike, your block is useless."

After that, we took a break. Mirko walked to the roof railing and grabbed two water bottles from a cooler. She tossed one to me. I leaned against the wall before taking a sip. My forearms, shoulder and legs bore dark bruises from the hit I took; since my body did not clear muscle strain or tissue damage without a full death-reset, the fatigue accumulated.

Mirko leaned her elbows on the railing, looking down at the street traffic. "I heard Endeavor put in a direct request for you after the Sports Festival; every major agency was offering you full, dedicated support from their different departments and media teams. Why pick a small office with a solo hero like me who doesn't even have sidekicks?"

"Those big agencies come with too many analysts and managers hovering around," I replied, without shifting my tone. "If I choose them, they'll ask annoying questions and want detailed reports on every move that I make. You don't hover around me, and you don't care about paperwork."

Mirko let out a short laugh, which turned into a grin. "So you wanted a boss who wouldn't bug you with forms. Fair enough. But keep in mind, working solo means no backup squad coming to pull you out if you get in over your head."

"That Works for me."

She looked at me for a second, then gestured toward the far ledge. I walked over to the edge, looking out over the wider district.

"You're going back Monday," she said.

"So tell me, what do you actually want out of this?"

I considered the gap between a presentable answer and an accurate one for a second, then decided to tell her the truth.

"A license," I said. "Then the kind of visibility that builds a reputation before I need one. After that, enough independence to work on my own terms without answering to a corporate agency."

"That's not a very heroic answer," she noted.

"No, but it's a real one."

"You know how many interns tell me they want to be the next All Might?" she asked, looking sideways at me. "Enough that it stopped meaning anything, and I stopped asking," She answered herself before I could try to guess. She turned back towards the skyline. 

"Knowing what you want is an advantage, but your goal has a packaging problem. In this job, how something sounds matters almost as much as what it is. Especially in the early phase of your career, when people are deciding which box to put you in."

"Let me guess, because it sounds selfish."

"Because it sounds selfish," she confirmed. "And right now, how people perceive you is an advantage."

She was right, and her direct critique was far more useful than any conventional encouragement. "Noted. I'll make sure to think of a better way to say it "

"Good. The Afternoon patrol starts in twenty minutes."

Our patrol covered the commercial district near the central train station. We were moving across a line of warehouses when Mirko suddenly stopped. Her ears twitched, tilting toward an alley three blocks down.

"We got a runner," she said, "Storefront snatch-and-grab. Stay there, Specter. Don't leave; I'll be back in a minute."

Before I could acknowledge the order, she launched off the roof, leaving a crack in the concrete where her heels had been planted.

I stayed put, folding my arms and leaning against the heavy housing of a roof ventilator. It would have been overkill for the both of us to chase a petty thief. I was looking at the surrounding rooftops when the air behind me shifted. I heard footsteps, accompanied by the faint metallic smell of blood.

Without turning back, I deployed the Black Ghost, letting it stand behind me to face the intruder.

"You didn't jump after her," a raspy voice spoke from the shadow of the access door.

I turned slowly. Standing on the rusted iron ladder was a man wrapped in tattered bandages, wearing a ragged red scarf and a harness with blades. The Hero Killer: Stain.

His hollow eyes were locked onto me.

"There are fake heroes everywhere who rush toward the light for applause," Stain said, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the katana strapped to his waist. "Yet you stand here, cold and detached. Tell me, boy, why do you wear that uniform? What is your purpose in this rotten society?"

I kept my pulse completely steady, maintaining my composure.

"Money and freedom," I replied flatly. "I want financial security and the independence to live without people managing me. There's no higher calling for me.” I didn't give a grand speech, and I certainly made no apology for it.

Contrary to my expectation, Stain didn't attack me. His eyes narrowed, searching my face for heroic bravado or panicked trembling; he found neither.

"It seems like you're no hypocrite," he muttered. "You do not hide your greed behind a mask of self-righteousness. You are merely a child whose mind has been poisoned by a commercialized world."

He glanced towards me. Though he could not see the Black Ghost, his instincts clearly registered the heavy presence guarding me. His eyes flicked back to my face, likely recalling my Sports Festival matches, specifically the paralysis ability that mirrored his own.

He looked at me for a long moment before arriving at a conclusion he had not fully anticipated.

"You're not what I came here to find," Stain said, stepping back into the shadows. "It would be a waste to kill you. Live a little longer, boy. When the time comes, I will correct your path."

With a swift jump, he dropped over the edge of the building and vanished into the alleyways below.

Five minutes later, a heavy thud signaled Mirko's return. She landed on the roof, dusting off her hands with a satisfied smirk before looking directly at me.

"I bagged him," she said, her eyes sweeping the quiet rooftop. "Did everything stay quiet up here?"

"Someone approached me," I said, keeping my posture relaxed. "He wasn't a threat, just curious."

She glanced at me once more, her eyes lingering on my face. 

"Fair enough," she grunted, kicking the recovered goods toward the access door. "Let me drop this off, and we'll finish this route."

….

Friday's morning patrol was less clean. There were two minor callouts, both resolved before escalating. Mirko moved through the district with ease, while I tracked from altitude, calling positions clearly.

By midmorning, she stopped at a vending machine; she bought two cans and handed me one just as the Black Ghost brought me down.

She drank in silence for a long moment, looking out over the district.

"Your recovery speed," she finally said.

"What about it?"

"Monday's shoulder. You came on Tuesday like it hadn't happened. Same with yesterday," she said, tapping her thumb against her can. "By all logic, your muscles should be torn to shreds. You should be limping back to the train station, but you don't show any sign of physical strain; you're healing too fast. It's like your body resets itself every time you go home."

‘ That's because it does.’ I met Mirko's gaze directly, offering the explanation I had prepared.

"There is nothing strange about that. I heal faster when I sleep."

‘ That could be considered true if you assume that me dying is the same as sleeping.’

Mirko listened quietly, her ears tilting slightly.

"That's so," she said, tossing the empty can into a recycling bin. "For a street hero who doesn't care about reports, it sounds awfully convenient. But that story won't hold if you're ever put in a room with the right people like the HPSC analysts, government researchers, or guys like Endeavor who dissect Quirk mechanics for a living. They'll look at your quirk and abilities and try to understand its working mechanics. If you're hiding something about how your power works, make sure your story is airtight before someone with a clipboard starts asking questions."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, fully aware of what could happen if people start asking questions.